


Ghost Limb

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Gen, Mind Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 16:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a way, he's always been there, a constant presence just out of sight. In another way, he'll never be there again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Limb

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hotrodngold (Krystalicekitsu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/gifts).



> Of hotrodngold's birthday request, this is the first _very obviously_ failed attempt. But it managed to converge into something fic-like, so here it is.

Sound comes back first, distant and uncertain. Voices blur into noises that are only just recognizable as language. Sensation is next, a biting pain in his fingers, the numbness of cryo making touch too intense and nonexistent by turns. Nothing in his left arm but the crack of ice breaking on metal, the illusion of a chill on flesh that isn't there. Air rushes into his lungs as they're thawed and hurriedly inflated before they can collapse again. Blood pulses under his skin, a too-hot flush making him sweat as it's reheated and pumped back into his veins.

Vision is always last, his eyelids peeling open only when the frost has melted. His eyes open to a dark room. Gentle shadows, smudges of charcoal on dirty gray canvas, white smears of motion around him. They coalesce into people. Doctors, scientists, all hard at work. Men in business suits, watching. Guards in the back. His eyes flit around, taking it all in, noting the weapons, the escapes, the lines of sight. 

This had happened before. He has no memory of it, but he knows it the way he knows the weight of a gun in his hand, the pull of a trigger. He knows little else. 

There's someone else in the room, too. Small. Pale. Thin. Just in the corner of his eye, always out of reach. None of the other people in the room take note. He disregards it, too. Like everything else, _he_ has happened before, too. 

One of the suits steps forward, tapping a manila folder tapping against the palm of his hand. Tall, gray hair: late middle age. Jaundiced. Unarmed. Low threat level. "Is he online?" the man asks one of the doctors. 

The illusion edges closer to his visible spectrum, a flash white shirtsleeves and quick motion. _You awake, Buck? You have that dream again?_

"Ask him," the woman answers, and he slowly turns his head to evaluate her. Late thirties. Good health. Armed—handgun in a hip holster. Medium-low threat level. "If he can answer, then yes. If not, give him ten minutes."

The man snorts. "Well? Are you online, soldier?"

He blinks slowly, assessing his condition, then nods. "Yes." 

"You have a mission."

* * *

Dr. Masum Yousef. Tehran. A name and a location. That's all he needs, but they give him more. Supplies. Operatives. Information. They make it easy. 

He walks through the halls of the base he's been stationed in, following in the footsteps of his handler—tall, Japanese-American male, early thirties, good health, heavily armed. Medium-high level threat. It's mostly empty other than them. Every step he takes echoes. Half a pace behind his, another set of footsteps follows, a shorter stride but a faster gait. When he turns a corner, he can almost see a second shadow cast by the fluorescent lights. 

He wishes his route had more corners to turn.

In the hangar, a truck is waiting. A humvee. Black. Unmarked. Unassuming. A mechanic reels off a checklist of its capabilities and firepower. He can almost feel the car under his dead left hand as he touches the hood. His fingers scratch the paint. 

The shadow follows, footsteps mostly silent, only present enough to stay a constant presence behind him. A familiar unfamiliar face smiles at him in the glass, too blurry to recognize. 

_You must be a whiz at cars. They got metal for brains, too._

At the same time, the humvee's keys are shoved into his hand. "We'll be following in a chopper," his handler says, "but we won't interfere. This is to be a low-key operation. Get the target to an isolated area before completing the mission. No witnesses."

"Understood." 

He opens the door, and the reflection vanishes mid-laugh.

* * *

He hadn't been told that the target had a SHIELD bodyguard. It complicates the mission.

The quiet assassination becomes a rout. The agent notices his tactics immediately, but instead of taking the target to a bunker as anticipated she puts him on the move. He loses them three times: outside Tehran, in the Toros Mountains, and then again at the docks in Trabzon. 

He manages to get to Odessa before the ship, catches them on their way out of the city along a narrow highway that runs across a series of steep cliff faces. The tires blow exactly as planned, sending their vehicle over the edge in a clean roll. He lowers himself with a grappling hook to inspect the wreckage—he doesn't remember making a mistake and leaving a target alive, but the thought makes his spine seize and his fists clench.

The target is still alive, somehow, crouched behind the SHIELD agent covering him with a hand gun. Female, mid-twenties. Heavily injured—broken collarbone, broken fingers, head injury, possible internal bleeding. Heavily armed—the gun, wrist units of unknown ability. A long rifle in sight, but potentially unusable due to her injuries. Threat level: high. Her hair is red, from blood and from nature, and she's maintaining a steady aim in spite of her injuries.

There's something about redheaded women. Something at the back of his throat, the memory of a laugh, of a joke. He doesn't know how to laugh. 

_Don't._

The vision in his peripheral steps a little closer. Workman khaki clothing, stained by red blood dripping from a broken nose. He's struggling with something invisible, trying to get closer. 

_You're better than this!_

She fires. The bullets ricochet off his arm, embedding in the dirt behind him. The magazine clicks empty. Raising his gun, he takes aim and fires back. One bullet, straight through. She doubles over, clutching her stomach. Behind her the target falls, choking on the bullet in his throat. The agent tries to grab a fresh magazine, but she's already losing consciousness from her injuries, slumping forward. Her hands fumble with the magazine. It slips to the ground next to her. 

His mission orders say to leave no witnesses. 

In the corner of his eye, _he_ is still fighting, yelling. _He_ wouldn't kill someone who was just there, who's just in the way. Unconscious and not a threat. 

_Don't do it. Please._

His throat clenches, and his eyes burn. There's the mission, there's always been the mission. But there's something else, too. Shame. 

He walks away.

* * *

He's collected in Odessa. Flown to a new base in London. He likes London. It's familiar, easy to remember. He thinks he even remembers it. The tic in his vision spends the flight bigger than usual, dressed in blue that seems too bright for the drab gray transport. He stays close to a wall, head turned as if to stare out a window that isn't there.

There's words on the tip of his tongue. Questions. Answers. A joke. The world outside his mission is pushing in too close, becoming too real. He can almost see the man's face now. He doesn't know what will happen when he does.

As soon as he steps onto the base in London, he's surrounded by scientists. They're not the same one from before. The woman is, with her high heel shoes and sharp eyes, but she has a team of new-comers. They're new in a lot of ways. They're uptight. Antsy. They double- and triple-check their work, and then go to her to have it checked again. He's left standing in a corner, twitching, fidgeting, waiting while they run their system checks. 

He doesn't know what's happening. It doesn't matter. His skin is too tight, his head too full. He can see the angle of a sharp nose. Hands that were always too big for the rest of him. Almost there, almost solid, almost real. Whatever the scientists are doing, they'll make it go away.

It's a relief when he's finally given the order to sit down, when the guard is placed between his teeth. The illusion is close enough to solid that he can make out familiar blue eyes, a sad smile. Always there, even though he never was. Never will be again. 

_Night, Bucky. See you on the other side._

_Night, Steve._


End file.
